Lettice And Lovage is a
comedy without
enough laughs, a satire without enough bite and a melodrama without
enough at stake.

What it is successfully,
however, is a star vehicle,
an opportunity for two actresses of immense charisma and ability to
show off for our delight. And it is as an excuse to watch Felicity
Kendal and Maureen Lipman at work that it is best enjoyed.

Peter
Shaffer, author of Amadeus, Equus, Royal Hunt Of The Sun and others,
essentially wrote the same play over and over – a man of limited
soul encounters a genius/saint and is driven to destroy him, damning
himself in the process.

Lettice And Lovage is an
attempt to
domesticate and feminise the formula, allowing the contrasting
figures to reconcile comically. But to get there Shaffer has to bend
characterisations and employ awkward dramaturgy in ways that are too
often inconsistent, unbelievable or just plain boring.

It is best
not to try to make it all make sense, but just to enjoy each separate
scene for its own sake.

Felicity Kendal plays a
tour guide at a very
dull stately home, who tries to keep her tourists awake by inventing
a colourful history for it. Maureen Lipman is the all-business
National Trust executive who feels obliged to fire her.

In Act Two,
for reasons never really explained, Lipman has a change of heart and
the two bond over some potent drinks and become friends. The second
interval covers another big change, and by Act Three the pair have
found a hobby in re-enacting historical executions, only to have a
neighbour's misunderstanding lead to Kendal's being arrested for
attempted murder.

You see what I mean about
it not making sense, and
I haven't mentioned the long screed against modern architecture,
meant to show that Lipman's character has hidden depths of passion,
but seeming to have wandered in from some other play.

Ah, but in the
middle of all this we experience such gloriously comic moments as
Kendal's character getting carried away by the romance of her own
tall tales, and later watch in delight as Lipman effortlessly steals
a scene with double-takes and facial expressions that silently and
comically react to her friend's uncontrollable enthusiasm.

And in
between we have that Nirvana of all actors, a drunk scene, in which
we get to watch as the two stars offer a master class in comically
indicating various levels of tipsiness.

Director Trevor Nunn's
contribution is to guide each of his stars to twinkle in the ways
they each best can, and if he can't make the play as a whole make
much sense, we simply have to not ask that of him.

There are signs
that the director could have drilled his cast – Petra Markham and
Sam Dastor also appear, in quietly supportive roles – more
rigorously. On Press Night no one was absolutely certain about their
lines and cues, and what little continuity of characterisation the
playwright offered was constantly being broken by flashes of panic in
the actors' eyes.

Once everybody gets more
confident and things
settle down, the play should run more smoothly and the comic timing
be more effective, offering even more opportunity to enjoy the two
stars at play.